


Paperback Hero

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: 5am writing, F/M, Fluff, I Blame Tumblr, Ichabbie Forever, Ichabbie Summer, a lot of nonsense really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-18 04:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11866566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Abbie's a hotshot lawyer at a Sleepy Hollow law firm, and Ichabod's the bestselling author who'd like to base his heroine on her. He's only in the country for two weeks, so naturally they can't get involved. Right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My child woke me at 5am, so I wrote this instead of trying to sleep.
> 
> Thanks to all my readers. Life would be crapper without you!

“I appreciate that, Mr. White, but I’ve written to you five times advising you of this new date.” Stressed, attorney Abigail Mills rubbed her temples as she listened to her client whine about her expectations of him. She’d put up with a lot from him in the last few weeks, but this? This made a new low.

“Let me get this straight,” she said, very slowly. “I take the time to type a letter, address and mail it, but it’s too much effort for you to open and read it?”

She listened to him on the other end and rolled her eyes so hard she was surprised they didn’t bounce out of her head. “Your cat can’t have separation anxiety  _ that _ bad. I don’t care what the vet said.”

He barked something about cat psychologists to her and she thought she might shoot herself because it would be more enjoyable. “Mr. White, you are due in court tomorrow. Not showing will make things extraordinarily bad for you.”

He whined about it being her fault for not notifying him properly. 

Abbie wished she could pull him up through the phone line and stomp on his head. And other parts of his anatomy that might feel significantly more pain. “I’m afraid the courts are unlikely to see it that way since I have written to you several times to inform you, not to mention left you  _ five  _ telephone voice mails.” She held the phone away from her ear as he blathered on at length, and at a significant volume. Finally he agreed to show up, acting for all the world as if he had just done her a very large favor.

“Moron,” she muttered under her breath. It was a good thing her hourly rate was high.  _ There’s no way I would represent someone like him without big bucks at stake.  _

The task done, she hung up, and her gaze strayed across her desk to thebag of donut holes she’d bought this morning, anticipating a day of idiots.

A little bit of sugar often did her a lot of good.

She snagged the bag and leaned back in her chair, taking her time opening it, savoring the first whiff of dough and sugar as it filled the air immediately around her. She slid one from the pack, licking her lips in anticipation. 

Slipping out of the smart, black and white wedge heels she wore, and looking forward to putting on her converse at the day’s end, Abbie put her feet up on her desk, taking a moment to admire the shiny purple polish on her toenails.

The phone rang.

Biting back a curse, Abbie tossed the donut hole back on to her desk and snatched up the receiver. Why hadn’t she thought to take it off the hook, just for a few minutes? “Mills,” she all but snapped into the handset’s small speaker.

The office secretary, Caroline, suppressed a chuckle. “Well, aren’t you in a good mood today?”

Abbie had a feeling she might need some aspirin to chase the donut hole with. Caroline had spoken with that someone’s here to see you tone. “What is it?”

Caroline did chuckle this time. “Interrupt you in the middle of a donut hole, did I?”

Was she that transparent? Abbie wondered. “Never mind.”

“Abbie, I’ve got a woman on the phone – Sophie Foster? Says she’s your cousin. Calling from Taylor & Wit Literary Services in London?”

Abbie mentally flipped through files in her head until she came to the one labeled  _ Sophie _ . Tall, long hair dark, full mouth. They hadn’t spoken in a while. Had something happened?

“Put her through, thanks,” she instructed. 

“Hey, Abs,” Sophie’s London accent floated up the receiver.

“Hi, Sophie.” Abbie couldn’t help but smile at her cousin’s voice. She’d always been a sucker for foreign accents. “How’re things with you?” she asked, deliberately curbing her curiosity about why the other woman was calling. 

“Oh, good, good. I’ve been at Taylor & Wit for around a year now - I love this job!” She enthused for a few moments about her colleagues and the nightlife in London.

Abbie opened her email inbox and began to scroll through new arrivals as she chatted casually to Sophie. Finally, when there was a long silence, she gave in. “What can I do for you? If you just called to chat, this is going to be one expensive gossip session.”

“While I do love gossip…” Abbie heard the rustle of papers, and then Sophie cleared her throat, sounding a bit awkward. “Listen, Abbie, you’re an attorney, aren’t you? Family law, am I right?”

“Mainly family.” But she had been known to dip her fingers in other pies when it was required of her by the firm. “Do you need some legal advice? Because, last time I checked, they did have lawyers in England.”

Sophie laughed. “You’re a hoot. Not legal advice for me. But let’s say someone was writing about a smallish US town, and wanted their main character to be a lawyer, a female one, obviously attractive-”

“Sophie, you’re babbling.” Abbie recognized it because she had a tendency to babble too, when nervous. “Lay your cards on the table already.”

Sophie drew a breath. Abbie heard the brief drum of fingers on a hard surface. “I’ve always been a babbler. The thing is…” Another pause. “Don’t be mad.”

In Abbie’s vast experience, the words  _ don’t be mad _ never prefaced anything good. She wished for coffee. A lot of very strong coffee. And maybe a second donut hole after she’d had a chance to eat the first. “I can’t promise to not be mad. Just tell me what you need.”

“Okay.” The sound of drumming fingers commenced for a moment. Abbie surmised that it must be a nervous tic of Sophie’s. “Have you heard of Ichabod Crane, suspense and thriller writer?”

Abbie took a moment to search her huge stock of memory files again. Crane. She’d read a few of his books, one of which had caused her an uneasy night’s sleep. His writing had her flipping pages anxiously, often for hours at time. She thought he might be one of the best suspense writers of the past few decades.

The New York Times often agreed.

She pictured the photo on the inside of the book jacket, a man with a face of planes and angles, arresting blue eyes, and thick hair of autumn golds and summer sun.

“I’m familiar with him,” she told Sophie, puzzlement creeping through her mind. “But what does a British suspense writer have to do with me?”

“Well, the thing is…”

Time to cut to the chase. “Sophie, I charge a fee for every six minutes of my time. You are coming close to racking up a hefty bill, and I have cases to work on.” And I want to eat my damn donut hole already. “Spit it out or hang up.”

“Well.” Her cousin blew out a breath. “You must be a good lawyer. Crane came to me last week – I’m his agent’s assistant.”

“Go on.” Abbie looked around on her desk for something to play with. She liked to keep her hands busy when she talked. She finally settled on rubbing a red stress ball between her palms. She’d picked  it up at a college fair when she’d volunteered to advise students who were looking to sign up to the legal career path.

“Well, quit interrupting me and I will spit it out!” Sophie heaved out a sigh, but there was a smile in it. “He was all excited about setting a book in the US, particularly somewhere like Sleepy Hollow – he always travels around, sets each one in a different, fun, exotic location. And he dreamt up this character. A female lawyer, one that gets drawn into a murder case. Full of intrigue and romantic tension, he said. He’s just brilliant at drawing you in, setting the scene.”

Abbie dropped her head on the cool surface of the desk for a moment and closed her eyes. 

“I didn’t go to law school for nothing. You sent him here to talk to me for advice on his character, didn’t you? Well… I have a break in my schedule next month….”

“You don’t sound mad. That’s good,” Sophe interrupted.

“I’m not mad. Just give me a date and I’ll tell you if I’m free.”

“Well, the thing is…. He’s sort of on his way.”

“On his way?” Abbie was going to ensure Sophie had a long and painful death. “Just tell me he’s staying somewhere - not with me?”

Sophie named the fancy hotel on the outskirts of Sleepy Hollow. Abbie supposed she’d let her cousin live.

“He’s staying for two weeks.”

“Soph, I have work. I won’t be free all the time.”

“Of course. Just.. you know, talk to him a bit. And.. be nice. I owe you one.”

Abbie pushed aside her annoyance. Writers must spend more time at their computers than out and about, she thought. He’d probably only need bare bones from her. Maybe he wouldn’t see her more than once.

She hoped.

“You owe me ten, actually.”

“One more thing,” Sophie added, the words rushing out of her. “I mean, the thing is, he should be with you-”

Her phone buzzed twice, the signal that she had a call waiting. “Bang on time,” she murmured. 

No rest for the wicked around here.

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie and the mystery writer meet over coffee. There might be flirting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this! Baby's settling in at nursery today, ready for my return to work on Monday.
> 
> I might have cried a little.

Abbie pushed back from her desk and cracked open the window at the rear of her office, then ran her fingers through those few waves of her hair that always refused to bow to the power of her GHDs. As a final nod to presentation, she spritzed a small cloud of her favorite perfume into the air in front of her and walked through it.

  
A moment after she set the rose quartz colored bottle down, there was a knock at her door. Show time, she guessed.

  
“Come in.”

  
She saw the doorknob turn before the door itself opened. And then her first impression struck. _Oh, boy._

  
The grey tweed of his jacket looked touchably soft, and the color of a moody sky in winter. The hem of it hit him mid-thigh. Underneath, she could see a crisp white shirt, apparently uncrumpled by hours of travelling. It fell open a few buttons to reveal his collarbone, and an inch of lightly tanned chest, with a few peeking whorls of chest hair. He hadn’t tucked the shirt in, and its color was a deep contrast to the black jeans he wore. Worn brown boots took her the final inch to the floor.

  
She looked up – he had to be over six feet – and met his gaze.

  
His old-gold, tousled hair wove around his face, the ends of it brushing the collar of his jacket. His dark cerulean eyes reminded her of the gorgeous shade of the sea in the tropics. Striking, black-framed, rectangular shaped glasses only drew her focus more intently to his searing gaze.

  
A beautifully sculpted jaw and cheekbones, and a currently unsmiling mouth, completing his face of planes and angles, ended her visual exploration of her guest.  
“Miss... Abigail Mills?"

  
She’d expected his accent to be James Bond crisp, so sharp the end of his sentences would be able to slice through glass. But instead, his voice held a wonderfully deep baritone – with softened edges.

  
“Yeah. Yes.” She walked around her desk and offered her hand. Ichabod Crane's publisher's picture didn't do him justice. Not even a smidge. She hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected a man so painfully gorgeous that it was probably dangerous to look at him without protective goggles.

  
He shook her hand. His own had a wide, warm palm. Long fingers. Short, clean nails. He held her hand a fraction longer than was polite. When he let go, Abbie felt an odd sensation run up her arm.

  
“You’re Crane.” It wasn’t a question. She had no other appointments with pant-wettingly gorgeous men from England today. She stepped back behind her desk, and gestured to the two chairs, used for guests and clients, that stood opposite her own. She waited for him to sit before she did. “Something to drink?” God help her, she needed coffee. Mankind shouldn’t have to suffer a working day without caffeine.

  
“Coffee, black. No sugar.”

  
She smiled at him. “It seems you read my mind.” Well, she might still waste an hour, but at least they’d already agreed on something. She dialed Caroline. When her secretary answered with a chipper, “Yup?” she replied, “Caro, be a doll and run across to Starbucks on the corner? I need two black coffees and-” Screw it. She was hungry. Woman could not exist on coffee alone, as amazing as it was. “And a pecan Danish, maybe two?” She lifted her eyebrows at Crane, a silent question. He lifted his hand in a universal “I’ll pass” gesture. “Actually, just the one. Thanks.”

  
Abbie replaced the receiver, glancing at the Brit beneath her lashes as she did so. For a writer, she’d been surprised to find him so incredibly attractive. She bit back on the thought, surprised at herself, but it was true – writing was a sedentary position. It couldn’t involve much working out, and yet Crane looked as if he’d made good friends with daily exercise a while ago. That, or he had a really mean metabolism.

  
“So.” She crossed her legs, joined her hands and cupped them over her knee. “You have impeccable timing, Mr. Crane. I’d barely got off the phone with your agent when you arrived.”

  
He had the grace to wince. “I’m just glad she got to you before I did.” He shifted in his seat. “Is now not a good time? Should you need, I'm willing to return later.”

  
Abbie would have bowed at his feet. Hardly anyone sitting in her office ever offered to come back at a time that might be more convenient to her.

  
Just as she opened her mouth to reply, there was a knock on the slightly ajar door. Caroline's smart, brown-shoed foot appeared, followed by a tray which contained two Starbucks takeout cups, a full paper bag and two napkins.

  
“Here we are.” She glanced at Crane before setting a cup before him. He gave a nod of thanks.

  
Behind the Brit, Caroline caught Abbie's gaze. She jerked her chin towards the writer and winked lasciviously, sliding her tongue around the corner of her mouth.

  
Abbie resisted the urge to roll her eyes and had to swallow back a laugh as Caroline slipped out of her office and closed the door behind her.

  
Reverently, Abbie peeled off the takeout cup lid and breathed in the smell of the piping hot liquid. She opened her desk drawer, took out two small yellow sachets of sweetener and emptied their contents into the cup, frowning when she realized she didn’t have a spoon.

  
After a moment, she remembered that Crane still sat in the room with her. She looked up at him, an apology ready on her tongue, and she noticed that the left side of his mouth had quirked up in a half-smile of amusement.

  
“If you’d like a moment alone with the coffee, you only had to say so.” The tiny hint he’d given of a smile grew into a full-blown grin. Even though she couldn’t help smiling in reply, Abbie almost swallowed her tongue. Wearing a serious expression, Crane struck her as formidably attractive, but smiling, he was, quite simply, devastating.

  
“Coffee and I have a very _special_ relationship.” She took a sip. It was almost better than sex. Probably better, considering Abbie hadn’t had sex for quite a long time, and as such, had a bit of trouble remembering the details. She set the cup aside. “Now. We’d better talk before I open the bag with the pecan Danish inside.” She flashed a smile at him. “I _will_ want to be alone with that.”

  
He coughed slightly, and Abbie wondered if he was suppressing a laugh. Then his searching gaze snapped to hers. “I don’t suppose you’d consider sharing?”

  
Abbie  placed her hand protectively on the bag. “You had your chance to order.”

  
“And foolishly, I said no. However, that was before I saw something I think I’d like to take a bite of.” He let his eyes meet hers, and held the contact for a few blistering seconds.

  
Abbie  broke it off, all but shivering inside with unexplained excitement. _Is he flirting with me?_

  
_He totally is._ It thrilled her.

  
Before she could respond, Crane sat back in the guest chair, getting comfortable, his tone businesslike and calm once more. “Do you have any questions for me, before I begin firing them at you?” He reached down, picked up a leather briefcase, and took from it a notepad and two pens. His pens were old-fashioned, inkwell ones.

  
“Why?” she wished he’d look at her like he had before – all fire and heat.

  
“To me, it seems only fair.” He took a sip of coffee. “As I am requesting information from you, I should at least offer you the chance to get some information from me.”

  
Abbie felt a surprised smile curve her lips. Maybe she wouldn’t cry off for an early lunch after all. Maybe they could have lunch together. This had the potential to become very interesting. “All right.” She glanced at the notepad he held before him. The page sat waiting, clean and unlined. She wondered what his handwriting looked like. She took a long sip of the coffee, and then regretfully set it aside for now. Too much caffeine in one go would have her jittery until late afternoon, and, worse than that, command frequent bathroom trips.

  
“Let’s start with the basic stuff,” she decided, meeting his gaze. His eyes, a compelling shade of late-summer sky blue, had a way of making her feel truly seen, maybe for the very first time. “What part of the UK are you from?”

  
He picked up his coffee cup and watched her over the rim for a long moment. “Care to hazard a guess?”

  
She spread her hands, palm up. “I’m not familiar with many English towns. Or even cities.” When he said nothing, simply smiled and waited, she narrowed her eyes, replaying his voice in her head. “Not London,” she decided almost immediately. “Not as far as Liverpool or Manchester – Paul McCartney is from that area, and you don’t talk anything like him.”

  
She watched him suppress a chuckle, and huffed. “Well, it would help if you’d throw me a bone here. Give me a county, a general area to start in?”

  
“Oxfordshire.”

  
Abbie mentally flipped through the towns she knew of in that area. "Seems too easy, but... Oxford?"  
  
“Correct.” He flashed that devastating grin again.

  
“Well, you’re a long way from home. What do you-”

  
Her phone’s shrill buzzed filled the room, interrupting her. Irritated, she picked up. “Yes?”

  
“Sorry to interrupt, Abbie. Don’t forget the weekly staff meeting, one-thirty today. Just letting you know so you have time to grab a quick lunch.”

  
Great. The weekly staff meeting. It was almost as much fun as waiting for paint to peel. Abbie thanked Caroline and hung up, glancing at the clock. It was almost twelve-thirty – time had flown, and the delicious Crane hadn’t asked her a single question yet.

  
She stood. “Mr. Crane, I’m sorry, but I’ve got an appointment I’d forgotten about. Can I arrange to see you later this week?”

He glanced at her hands, spread palm down on her desk. “Of course. As soon as you can, if I may.”

  
Abbie crossed to the windowsill and plucked her diary from between two folders, sliding it open to the current day’s page. Flicking through, she saw with mild annoyance that the nine-to-five of her week, and the one that followed, had been completely filled with time in court, or client appointments. She moved back to the desk.

  
“I am sorry about this,” she began, meaning it. “I haven’t got an inch of breathing room for a fortnight. My colleagues-”

  
Before she could finish, he rounded the desk and was standing before her. This close, she could make out his spiky eyelashes and smell the woodsy scent that floated up from the vee where his white dress shirt hung slightly open. The delicious aroma wasted no time in permeating through her, and her libido, long presumed dead, perked up and made itself known.

  
“Dinner?” he asked. The word wasn’t above a whisper.

  
Silence hung in the room for a long moment. The computer beeped, signaling an incoming email. All Abbie heard was the sound of her own breathing as she replayed his question in her head.

  
“You don’t need to take me to dinner,” she said, automatically, having fended off other unwanted advances.  However, _this_ advance was definitely not unwanted. “I can meet you at your hotel to answer your questions.”

  
A little voice inside her head cried: _what the hell,_   _woman! Accept a free meal when a handsome man offers it._

  
Crane moved a fraction closer to her. “I realize there is no need to escort you to dinner,” he said slowly. “What happens if I _want_ to?”

  
She hesitated.

  
“I believe you owe me,” Crane told her, with just a hint of a grin. “You didn’t want to share the Danish, after all. You can at least allow me the pleasure of your company over dinner.”

  
Her gaze dropped to his mouth as he spoke. An imagined image of them sprawled across her desk, his lips ravaging hers, filled her mind for a fleeting moment. Then her gaze snapped back up to his as she felt twin roses of heat bloom in her cheeks.

  
Then I guess it would be rude of me to refuse.”

  
“I guess it would. Perhaps... tomorrow evening?” He stepped back a little.

  
Abbie took the opportunity to catch her breath, which had suddenly started to come up very short. Once he’d backed up to his original side of her desk, she arranged a calm expression over her features. “Do you have a restaurant in mind?” When he hesitated, she laughed. “How silly of me. You’ve only just arrived. How about I come to your hotel and we decide where to go from there. It’ll be a weeknight, so I don’t think we’ll need to reserve a table.”

  
“Perfect.” He gave her a long look. Something definitely occupied his thoughts – Abbie sensed the heat of his gaze all the way down to the toes of her stockinged feet – but his expression remained unreadable. “It’s the-”

  
“Hyatt.” At his raised eyebrow, she added, “Sophie.”

  
“Funny, isn’t it, how very much that one word explains.” He slid his pad and pens into a pocket on the side of the briefcase. “Seven?”

  
She’d been watching his hands, and her mind dipped back into her fantasy of him ravishing her on the desk. His voice snapped her back to the here and now. "Seven will be..." she nearly said  _heaven,_ but caught herself just in time. "Perfect."

She tried not to look at his butt when he left the room. She nearly managed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to fuel my ramblings, you could buy me a ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/A7763JWS
> 
> I'm not going to stop writing if no one does, but I would love it!


End file.
